


blood and breath

by horrorcore



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Fantasy, Dark Will Graham, Inspired by Interview With the Vampire, M/M, Minor Character Death, New Orleans, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorcore/pseuds/horrorcore
Summary: "You must understand that blood and breath are just elements undergoing change to fuel your radiance."A retelling of Interview With the Vampire.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. danse macabre in g minor, op. 40

**Author's Note:**

> so.. i've managed to fall in love with hannibal..  
> and i've also been in love with iwtv and the vampire chronicles since 2018, so i've decided to combine them.
> 
> i'm sticking mostly to the movie, with references and scenes that are in the books instead, but a lot of stuff is changed from iwtv canon bc it literally wouldn't make sense otherwise. bear with me.
> 
> also im a little rusty, and this is my first time writing will and hannibal, so if it’s a little ooc in the beginning forgive me! 
> 
> anyways enjoy what i'm skipping studying for exams to write :>

The room is lit only by the street lamps below, while headlights and the glow of lamps bounce against the cheap cream colored walls. The darkness and the modern invention of heating systems seeps warmth into his bones as he gazes out the large window, like good liquor, like good blood. Like the kind he drank, pressed up against a body flushed warm and sticky from the hunt. Like Hannibal pressing words into his skin instead of knives. Instead of sunlight and fire, and screams of children.

He lets himself lapse into the pleasant memory, lets the pendulum swing, basking in the pure white heat of a broad chest pressed against his back. It laps at his bones like the hellfire Hannibal speaks so eloquently of, almost uncomfortable but too pleasant to back away. It's just short of perfect, even when the pressure of Hannibal holding him down is replaced with the burning of rope; even when the crackle of fire is replaced with the crackle of bones. But it's okay, when he sees the skeleton on the cathedral floor, it's okay, because he's right there, even if he's begging for the first time in his life, it's _okay because he's still there._ Abigail is still there, as she struggles, thrashing and arguing, but she's _still there. It's enough._ He's barley aware the sun will rise, will take them away. _It's okay, trapped here in these memories._

He's broken from the memory, as he so often is, by the voice of a man he knows as Frederick Chilton. He runs a criminal asylum in Baltimore, and publishes his shoddy interviews with coerced 'patients' in psychology magazines. When Will read of him, of his track record of arrogance and paying his way through, he knew Frederick was the one for his story. He's wearing a tacky carpet-colored suit so befitting of the 70s it almost makes Will sick. He decides he likes it, because it would piss off Hannibal perfectly.

"Mr.. Graham, yes?" Frederick startles him. He's dully aware of the sweat running down his back, and he cringes. 

"Yes." Will sighs. He knows the reason why he's doing this, why he's putting himself through more interaction than necessary. Doesn't mean he doesn't hate every second of it.

"Good. I'm Frederick Chilton, and this is my journalist friend, Freddie Lounds," He gestures at the woman sitting behind him, dressed in possibly the most offending cheetah pantsuit Will has ever seen. She looks at him like she could crush him between her heeled boots. He decides he hates her almost as soon as he sets eyes on her. "We collect lives. Document interesting stories of demented people. She told me you'd reached out for an interview." He laughs nervously. Will can practically smell the fake confidence crumbling under layers of his fake cologne. He delights in it.

"Yes." Monotone, a crude imitation of Hannibal's scare tactics. It's not the best, but he likes how it makes Frederick shiver.

An unsure moment passes between the three of them. Fight, flight, or freeze.

"So," Freddie leans forward, a smile blooming across her face. It wasn't kind. "you're here to tell us your life story." She clicks the tape recorder into action.

"You'd have to have a lot of tape for my story." Will leans forward to match her, without a smile.

Frederick chuckles. "So much the better," he pats his pocket, "I've got a pocketful of tapes. So shall we begin?"

Will nods. Freddie sighs.

"What do you do?" 

Will inwardly chuckles. This should be the most fun he's had in centuries if he plays his cards right. 

"I'm a vampire." Short and sweet. Right to the point. Freddie's eyes widen and she shakes her head in disbelief. "I'd like to tell you my story. All of it." 

"Are you going to kill us?" Freddie interrupts before Frederick can stop her. "Drink our blood?" She laughs.

"You don't need to worry about that. Coming here would be useless, then." He snorts. Hannibal would do something like that. Draw it out until it's so nerve wracking they want to be eaten. He wouldn't.

"You believe this, don't you? That you're a vampire? You really think.." Frederick eyes him, with a practiced calm only psychiatrists and their worst patients have. Will can see the cogs in his (feeble, Hannibal would say, while he cooked some sort of fancy dish for Abigail's piano tutors) brain turning.

Will sighs, and interrupts before he can finish. He comes up with an excuse when he sees Freddie squinting at her little notebook and struggling to write in the darkness. "Turn on the light. Too dark."

She looks up, nearly impressed. "I thought vampires hated the light."

The light clicks on. Freddie and Frederick jump, staring for a moment at Will's empty seat, and then gasping when they spin on their heels to find him standing by the switch behind them, his face illuminated now. Messy curls fall into a well-crafted face, handsome and youthful, with dark stubble playing across it. The face of a Greek statue, one left abandoned and blanketed in the sad dust of an underfunded museum.

The well-polished gold embellishments on a rather plain dark suit, tailored tight and purposeful, shine under the dingy light.

"Good God!" Frederick yelps, clutching at something for balance. Freddie's face schools itself into a smirk that only widens as she places a well-manicured hand on her hip. She looks him up and down and wonders how many marriage proposals he'll get if this article goes down smoothly in her magazine. They should include a picture, really, or at least a well-written description. Women love a well-dressed crazy. 

"We love it, really." Will catches himself before he can wink. It would ruin the performance. "Don't be frightened. I want this opportunity." He stands for a moment at the light, then dims it before he slinks back to his chair. Freddie settles back into hers, tapping Frederick lightly with the tip of her heel when he stands shell-shocked for a bit too long. He sits down, enthralled, eyes scathing Will in a way that makes him feel like a specimen to be examined. He liked that look on Hannibal, centuries ago. But here, it makes him want to wince and shrink away.

"Should we begin like David Copperfield - I am born, I grow up." Will waved his hand dismissively. Hannibal would have had a field day with modern journalists. He can only hope to have a fraction of the fun. "Or.. we could begin at my becoming, as my maker called it."

Frederick swallows. Fake confidence, fake cologne. It all works the same on idiots.. and the criminally insane, he supposed.

"You're not lying to me, are you?"

"Why would I lie?" There _were_ many reasons. Fame, money, marriage proposals. None of which were remotely close to the actual reason he drug himself here. "1791 was the year it happened. I was twenty-four.. younger than you are now." Obviously. Will inwardly winced. "But times were different, I was a man then, and I was in charge of my father's boating docks just south of New Orleans."

-~-

The wet humidity stuck Will's clothes to his skin. The air near the dock felt like walking through hot clouds of water, trailing him with the smell of fish and rot, and the ride to the church was only a little better. He ignored the honeysuckle bushes blooming yellow through brambles, and swatted at the mosquitoes buzzing around him like a blood-sucking aura. Last time, he'd grabbed a handful of blooms and held them flush to his face in anger, but instead of the sweet scent all he'd gotten were more bugs trailing him like they were pallbearers at his own funeral service.   
  
He decided that the smell of rot that clung to his clothes was fitting, in a dark sort of funny way. 

He pushed through the vines that clung to the archway of the graveyard, taunting in their green hues. He wandered through the tombs. The broken ones seemed to call out for help, with their crumbling stones and disintegrating faces. The graves with good upkeep scoffed, flaunting their new bouquets and polished headstones. But the one at the head of the graveyard, a beautiful, new Greek style tomb sang to him like a broken siren. He knelt down beside it, eyes trained on the marble inscribed names.

**_Molly Graham - 1763 - 1791_ **

**_Infant Walter Graham - 1791_ **

Will was too empathetic. He had been told that from the people in his life since he was born. From his father, standing gruff and distant on the dock, pulling boat parts along and shouting orders. From his brother, a priest with eyes filled to the brim with holy fire, making him recite scripture until he tasted blood. Even his wife, gentle, mild-tempered, Molly. There was care, understanding, but never any love to their relationship. She didn't care, she had held him all the same when the night terrors of identifying familial bodies and bible verses bit at his ankles, made him tea as he shuddered and screamed, and cleaned his sweat from the bedclothes.

He ran his dirty fingers across the script, scowling as the soil clung to the stone. Fate had stolen from him the only person who had ever given him the illusion of a normal life. The stone angels that loomed over her tomb stared at him cold and ashamed. He knew he didn't deserve her. From the moment he'd met her, his parents having arranged their marriage, he knew she deserved more. A man that didn't dirty their nice four-poster with pools of sweat and drops of blood. A man that took her to the theatre on Saturday, and to church services on Sunday. A man with eyes not haunted by past hallucinations. A man who didn't wake startled, wracked with fever and delusions, grabbing at her neck.

She'd remove his hands with gentle, cautious patience. She'd smile so calmly, with so much sadness in those deep, knowing eyes. After a year, she knew how to find the knives he'd hide in the bed. After two, she figured out how to guide him back into the estate from wherever he'd sleepwalked off to.

An angel, he'd told her, delirious with fever one night. She was an angel.

She shook her head, round eyes tinged with something he couldn't recognize, and laughed. "No, Will. Not an angel."

He wondered if she was one now, if she took back her words. He sighed. She never took anything back.

He debated on letting the pendulum swing. Revisiting the feel of her hands on too-warm skin, cool and soft. He decided against it. He didn't want to hear her screams when the memory turned sour. He pulled a flask of whiskey from his frock coat, turning it up and taking a swig a little bit too large. He let the heat burn down his throat and pool in his body before it ultimately surrendered, leaving him clammy and disoriented. He looked up through the canopies of moss and trees, staring at the blood red setting sun until it burnt his eyes. It had gotten far too late.

Distantly, he remembered how his father had scolded him for staying at the dock past sunset because of the copperheads and rattlesnakes hiding in the bushes, always lying in wait to strike. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and he shivered.

-~-

"I was hopeless. I had lost my wife, my kid. I didn't have anything to live for." Will sighs, brushing a hand through his curls. Damn, this part of the story was tedious. He could still smell the scent of boat docks and sick whenever he reminisced. "So I attempted to throw it all away, any way I could. I was not going to do it myself, though."

"Classic stubborn suicidal." Frederick comments, tapping rhythms on his leg.

"Cliché." Freddie eyes him with disdain.

"Yes. I know." Will cringes. He has to remind himself why he's doing this, and entertain himself with the mental image of Hannibal snapping their necks - so tempting he almost lets the pendulum swing to see it - to continue. "As I was saying, I wanted to lose it all.."

-~-

The tavern was loud. 

Far too loud, too fast, too bright but too dark all at once. People buzzed around him, drinking, crying, arguing. Taverns attracted the worst kinds of people, Will had discovered when he was younger. 

Which was exactly why he was here, sitting at a rickety table, slamming down cards with a woman hanging around his neck and another at his side. He drank down the absinthe by his side, only half aware of what he was doing. He held up a hand of four aces, vision shaky, faces of the gamblers around him blurred. He smiled, unaware, as one of the gamblers forcefully stood, almost taking the table with him.

"You calling me a cheat?" Will slurred out the words.

The gambler, a large accented man with an untrimmed beard who smelled of cheap alcohol and sweat, pulled a pistol from his ill-fitting pants, and leaned over until the table did fall out of the way. Drinks spilled and glasses shattered; cards and money flittering across the wood floor. 

The women at his side and the gamblers around them filtered back in hushed silence. The people on the balcony above stopped to stare and gawk. 

"I'm calling you a piece of stinking offal!" shouted the large gambler, who almost directly pointed the pistol at Will. His arm wavered with drunkenness. Will felt delight for possibly the first time in a decade.

He pulled haphazardly at the lace of his shirt, ripping it open to reveal bare chest underneath. Will locked eyes with the man, but let his gaze flitter back to barrel of the gun. "You lack the courage of your conviction, do it!" Anticipation buzzed in his every vein, ignited his skin. He could feel it, feel the break of skin-

-A thick, heady moment passed between them. The gambler slowly dropped his gun, eyebrows furrowing as he stared at Will with an expression a mix of horror and something else he really couldn't place. Will sat, shocked and quiet, until the tavern buzzed to life again and he was hoisted up by the woman that had once been wrapped around him.

She pulled him up, tucking her arms under his in an attempt to help him walk. The little bit of hope for humanity he had left said her actions were sweet. The cynical remainder told him she simply wanted to get paid. 

He felt dizzy, sick, and on edge like he'd come down from a high. He stared around the tavern as she walked him out, eyes drifting to the balcony above, and a jolt of _something_ shot straight down his spine.

Eyes. Maroon, almost golden in the dim light, unnatural eyes. _Watching him._

"Eyes.." He whispered, distantly aware of the body at his side.

"You've had too much to drink.." The woman at his side, her face caked in rouge blush and lip paint, sighed. He could finally hear her in the dark, muggy night. She ran a hand across his back and he felt her wince. "and you're.. covered in sweat?" She let him rest against a wall and backed away.

"Thought you.. whores had less standards.." Will chuckled, darkly, swaying against the vine-covered brick. The woman frowned impossibly more.

"More than you, obviously. Though, you do look as if you pay handsomely.."

The woman dropped to her knees with a dull thunk. Will screwed his eyes shut, pushing back against the wall.

Instead of the musical clink of belts, however, there was a resounding _crack_ that tore through the air. He opened his eyes and fell back against the wall impossibly harder when the woman _was not there, and there was a man in her wake._

"Do you?" The man almost sounded teasing. His voice was laced with a thick accent from some European country Will had barely heard of, let alone ought to remember while drunk.

 _"What?"_ Will grappled at the wall behind him, wavering on wobbly legs hardly trusted to carry him if he'd try to run. It wasn't like he could, anyway. The man was so tall, terribly broad, like a wall of his own, but still lean and elegant as he towered over Will.

"Do you? Pay handsomely, I mean." 

Will shuddered. "Listen, I- uh, I don't.. You're.." he stuttered, words falling short as his eyes reached the man's face. High cheekbones, lips that seemed to perpetually be curled into a snarl, deathly pale, _unnatural_ features.

And _maroon, almost golden eyes_. Eyes that burned holes into Will like fire, like brandy, like the setting sun. It was too much, too bright, too dark, too red, and soon a scream was bubbling and threatening to release from Will's throat. 

The man _did_ snarl this time, kicking something (or someone) out from between them and pressing a large hand against Will's mouth. He watched with something akin to smugness flickering in his eyes as Will's own widened and he attempted to thrash pitifully from his grasp. Supernatural strength held him in place, and he almost allowed himself a laugh as the smaller man went dreadfully complacent when he sunk his fangs into the crook of his neck. 

The man drank, careful and cautious. The boatman's blood tasted as good and aged with empathy as the fine wine and meat he'd adored in his life. He smiled against the bite, relishing in knowing it will taste so much better unmarred by the alcohol and fear. He almost fell victim to the pull, to the lull of a lamb's heartbeat, but he caught himself. There is time to take all he has to give, but now is not that time. This was a mark, a lesson. He was claiming his lamb, carrying it away from the slaughterhouse. He was so warm, so pliant, as the blood rushed forward to protect the wound. He resisted the urge to run a hand through those curls, matted as they are. He abstains and thinks of how gorgeous they will be when he is born to darkness, and they are flush with new beginnings.

The man pulled his fangs from Will's neck, clasping the hand from his mouth over the wound, coaxing the bleeding to a slow stop. For a moment, as Will regained awareness, he took in the boatman's scent. Under the smell of cheap perfume, alcohol, sweat, and something with a ship on the bottle, there is a natural smell so tempting and luring. The smell of honeysuckle and moss. The smell of sunset, the perfume of Pysche. 

Under long lashes and blush bruised skin, Will gazed up at the man. 

"Do you still want death?" The man whispered, overtaken, "Or have you tasted it enough?"

"E..enough.." Will choked out, eyes fluttering shut. He was asleep within seconds, limp and boneless.

The man pulled him up against his chest, a smirk almost playing on his lips. He settled Will into the river nearby and admired how the lamps shimmered against the water dampening his skin.

He walked away from his lamb utterly satisfied.

-~-

Frederick stares openly now, slack jawed. Freddie still dawns her unimpressed expression, but the quirk of her eyebrow was enough for Will.

"So that's how it happened? He just.. killed a prostitute, bit you, and left you in a lake?" Freddie questions.

Will wishes it had been that simple. "No.. It takes a little bit more than that."

"Good god.." Frederick repeats under his breath, while pressing a new tape into the recorder and clicking it to life.

-~-

Will woke in the river bed, blanketed in moss and shallow water. The sun rose looming over the willows, dawning the area in golden hues. It was almost peaceful, just enough to keep him steady when the events of the night before rushed back.

He had taken a shaky look down, registered his blood staining the ripped lace shirt and the intense throbbing of his neck, and promptly fell back into sleep.

When he had truly woke, he was laying in his bed. A lavish four-poster shrouded in white mosquito netting, with cream sheets, pillowcases, and blankets. They weren't decorative. They hadn't been since him and Molly had first been married; when they were expected to make the most of the Graham estate. They quickly learned night terrors did not mix well with decorative beds, and Molly had discreetly switched them while Will was working. He never thanked her. She wouldn't accept it.

He sighed happily against the plush bed, stretching the sleep from his limbs, letting the fabric glide across them. After he had settled back into the little crease his body had made in the bed, he finally pushed past the sleep. He felt the curve of his neck, felt bandages and gauze.. 

There was no blood on his clothes, no dirt or river water.

He briefly debated wether or not the river thing was a dream, until a figure startled him out of the trance.

The man from the night before was standing before his bed, slinking around it, running his broad hands across the netting. It obscured his face slightly, but the features were so striking that there could be no mistaking the man that had _bit him._

Will grappled for the pistol that he usually kept in the bed, but it was no where to be seen. 

"Who the hell are you? What are you doing in _my house?_ " 

The man sighed. This one was as feisty sober as he had hoped. He admired the fearful figure of Will obscured by mosquito netting, committing it to memory.

"Life has no meaning anymore, does it?" He continued to move around the bed, "The wine has no taste. The food sickens you.. There seems no reason for any of it, does there?" Voice calm and steady, soft but strong.

"You are _in my house._ " Will growled as the man pulled the netting open, leaning in just slightly. Will pulled farther back.

"But what if I could give it back to you," He ignored Will's attempt at intimidation, dropping his voice, "pluck out the pain. Give you another life.." 

He leaned farther forward, entrapping Will, forcing him to simply lay back and enjoy the little speech. "One you could never imagine."

Will swallowed, looking anywhere but those _damn eyes_. It gave him a chance to study the graying hair that fell just right against his forehead, the bright white tips of the fangs peeking out when he spoke. Candlelight spilled across his face, accentuating the features, making him look almost god-like. Will tried to crush that thought as soon as it broke its way through.

"Don't be afraid," He reached out, placing a hand firm against Will's jaw. He guided him up and out of the bed, sliding the hand down to his arm as they walked, running proud fingers against the bandages on his neck. "I'm going to give you the choice I never had."

-~-

"Damn." Freddie laughed. "He's a keeper, isn't he?"

Will allowed himself a small smile. The irony.


	2. mephisto waltz no. 1, s. 514

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW / brief mention of molly's pregnancy, and a brief mention of hannibal starving himself (not in an ED sense)

That next morning was the last morning Will would ever see. 

The man (Hannibal, he had told Will over dinner in which he cooked but dined on an empty plate,) had appeared ghost-like beside his bed once again, this time without words. He stared through the netting at Will's sleeping form, twisting in his sheets and mumbling in fevered dreams. He didn't bother to push the lace aside this time, he liked how the white obscured Will and made him look ethereal in the glow of the candle. He didn't know for how long he had stood there, simply watching and memorizing Will's unconscious movements. He admired the way his muscles stretched against fabric, the way the veins of his neck pulsed, even the way his brows furrowed and relaxed as he dreamed. He could picture Will moving around with a vampire's skill in fine Italian silk, loose and dramatic, falling over all the uneven canyons of his body in waves. He imagined buying Will more and more as when the ones he loved grew stained with blood. He imagined outfitting Will not unlike a devoted follower outfits a deity's statue in coins and jewels.

He circled the bed, pulling the lace open and tapping his shoes against the unpolished floor. Will shuddered, eyes snapping open wide before squinting to adjust to the light held by Hannibal. Instinctively, he pulled back from the man at his bedside, blinking rapidly and untangling himself from the sheets until he could move freely. He glanced around to the windows. It was still dark, likely in the early hours of the morning. 

"too early.." Will grumbled, "how long have you been.. doing that?" He gestured to Hannibal's spot at his bedside. 

Hannibal made a noncommittal noise, one Will could have mistaken for the beginning of a laugh if he didn't know better. He placed the candle on the beside table, shifting it away from the netting. "I will be retiring soon," He looked off at the window warily, "but I saw fit to wake you for the sunrise. It will be your last."

"Christ," Will shifted back under his blankets, "You know why I want this. I don't need one last sunrise." He pressed his face into the pillow. The air was so still and quiet for a moment he'd almost been sure Hannibal had left the room. 

"You will miss it if you don't rise soon, but it is your choice to make." Hannibal turned on his heel, with one last lingering glance at the lace of the bed. Will listened to the retreating tap of his shoes until the room grew deathly quiet again.

The sky began to glow a deep violet, and Will drug himself out of bed. 

When he had made his way to the outside, perched on the fence of the estate, he watched the sun filter through moss and trees. It shone blood red for a few short minutes, bathing in a faded pink sky. It gave way to pure golden hues as it climbed, showering everything in light.

He looked around at the one pure moment in this place, when the sun baptized away the sickness. When everything filled with pain was seen in a new glow, a new light. For a split second, he had never known Molly. The throb of the bite on his neck was distant. The sun burned away the pain, like holy fire. Sunrise, he decided, was the closest moment to Eden humans would ever get to see. A split second of God's pity for His creations before He let the snake slither in again. 

He found himself wondering why he had given in to all of this. If he had even really processed it in the first place, he wasn't sure. Was he ever sure?

One thing for certain, he was sure he didn't need (or want) God's righteous pity.

He also found himself far too giddy for the snake to slither in again.

-~-

"He watched you while you slept?" Frederick eyes him. Will scoffs.

"Not the creepiest thing he's done by far."

Freddie rolls her eyes.

-~-

Will had wandered back inside after what felt like hours, his eyes burning and bright holes of dark dancing in his vision. He pushed into the kitchen, sighing when he spotted a delicate porcelain bowl on the main counter. He made his way over, bumping into furniture and softly cursing as he went. It obviously didn't belong to the estate's collection. The bowl was beautiful; beautiful in a way that did not last in the Graham estate. Beautiful things were broken, discarded, traded. Molly was beautiful, in the way that porcelain is not. And yet, even then, she was broken. 

(Her neck was beautiful, beautiful in the proud way that broken teacups quell your anger and ignite it at the same time. Her neck was beautiful before, and even more so after. Will you be beautiful after, in the ways of broken teacups?)

Bruises danced behind his eyes. Hands and necks and skin and all the dreadful complications.

(It excited you.)

Molly smiled. Molly smiled, and she was not screaming. She was sitting beautiful and untarnished on the marble counter top, reaching for him.

He could feel her, hear her call for him. Hear her sing for him, scream for him, scream _at him. Hands and necks and skin and sweat and knives and all the dreadful complications._

Before he knew it, the porcelain bowl was shattered against the floor, spilling its content of eggs and sausage. His hands shook. He was numb and his body shook thoroughly, heaving with every rough breath. He was dully aware of the blood oozing from the cuts on his hands.

It excited him, the bowl. Breaking it. Feeling the damage. Seeing it's contents scattered across the floor. 

Damn Hannibal's fancy porcelain.

He would have to learn that, in the Graham estate, beautiful things were brought in to be broken.

-~-

Hannibal rose with the moon, as vampires tend to do. He eyed the pale silver light that filtered over the room he'd settled in, admiring how it illuminated speckles of dust floating around. He'd deducted, from the state of the room and much of the rest of the estate, Will had kept as detached of a life as he'd imagined. He'd taken his time to learn about Will before seeking him out, of course. He knew about the late wife and child. He'd talked to drunks in the town who had confided that Will was a respectable man, albeit a bit silent, until he suddenly went 'mad' only a short time before the mysterious death of his pregnant wife. Tragic, cried the women who wanted nothing but to gossip about the man. _It was all so very frightening_ , they said, _he'd appear in the middle of the docks in the dead of night, with no clue as to where he was!_ Dreadful, absolutely dreadful. It was amazing.

He'd had so many failed fledglings in the past. Vampires who he sought to change in his image but who were too weak-minded to last a second in his head. There was Tobias, with his passion for brutal music and his quiet appreciation for the spilling of blood. He was almost good enough, until a young man from the nearby town became enraptured with him and Hannibal both. Tobias was too young to understand how to twist the unwanted affections of others for his own gain. He just basked in it, and let Franklyn discover their secrets in his haste for their love. The memories of Franklyn's pleas to be turned buzzed like unwanted flies in his mind palace, and he relished in the memory of his screams before he slammed the door to their personal crawlspace. Hannibal had thrown two into the fire that night, one with some regret and the other with glee.

Then there was Francis, rejected and alone. Such a good target for molding. He was a shy boy, and just short of clever. Hannibal had taken him in, freed him, taught him of dragons and fangs. He was taken by the images of biblical red dragons tearing the sky apart with fire and revenge. Demons ripping down God from His pedestal and inciting brutal wrath. He'd focused so much energy and time and rage filled lust into his becoming. Such power flowed from him and threatened to spill over. It was the beginning to a story Hannibal was eager to watch unfold. He was almost proud, but then he really shouldn't have such faith in others. Francis had fallen for a blind woman, admittedly beautiful with her dark skin, wide eyes, and thick coils that fell across her soft shoulders. She was the only one not able to see what he'd become, and he strung her along with lackluster love. Hannibal felt sorry for her in the way that one feels sorry for crushed ants. In the end, Hannibal had set only Francis into the flames, stringing a key around her neck the last moments and telling her to find her way out. 

The most recent of his fledglings was Bedelia. He had found her one night, sipping wine on a balcony in France, an easy and beautiful target for a feeding. When he had snuck up to her spot on the railing, fingers seconds away from being coiled in her blonde hair, she had simply asked for a conversation first. In the end, he'd found her too interesting to kill. She could become so much more in his image. Through their stay together, which drifted eventually to Florence, she had grown to care for him. It was a mistake, one she knew but couldn't escape. Her first kill was so messy and brutal, all of her carefully stowed away feelings expressed through the ripping out of a man's throat. It was not beautiful or purposeful, just an outlet. Hannibal cleaned up her mess, oddly sad she'd failed him. She was almost perfect, but in the wrong ways. There was little charm in her out pours of emotion. When he'd left her, he couldn't bring himself to take her life. It was almost too kind. He let her go, and hoped she wouldn't throw herself away before they could meet again.

Will, though, Will was different. Inexplicably different. Hannibal would have mistaken him for fae if he hadn't known better. Lithe and agile, scruffy and haunted. He let himself lapse into shivers remembering the conviction with which Will demanded to die. He wanted to take and steal from fate, so spoiled even if he didn't understand it yet. So much potential was hidden in those deep, angry blue eyes. _Blue._ Such an unnatural blue. Bright and dark and swimming with red-rimmed hurt. Unlike Francis, he didn't have to coax and build up the wrath in Will. It was already brimming, threatening to spill over. All he needed was a push, to be thrust into his becoming. He could feel the heat radiating from Will's skin, see the flames pushing through the wire. _I don't find you that interesting_ , He'd told Hannibal over dinner last night. _You will_ , he replied. Hannibal would make sure of it. 

The floorboards of Will's memory palace were brimming with snakes. All Hannibal had to do was pull up the loose board and let them slither in. 

-~-

Will could hear Hannibal's insistent pacing on the floor above his head, and he _hated it._ The pompous bastard just had to taunt him. All he wanted was a gun pressed to his temple and the free-falling weightlessness one only feels in death. Instead, he got some eastern European prick with a taste for Dante wearing out his floors. _Tap-tap-tap, click-click-click._

Decades later, Will would know Hannibal and his mind so well that he would know that every single moment of his advance was planned. From the room he chose, to the tapping on his floors. It was all an extra trick he had up his sleeve. But then, in the estate shrouded in moss and fog, he was clueless and _furious._

He could hear each tap echo on the spiral stairs as Hannibal descended. _Tap-tap-tap._

_(click-click-click-click-click-click-clickclickclickclickclick-)_

His mind burned. Fire and anger. His hands trembled with want, wanting to hear and feel the vibrations of bones breaking in his palms. He shook, trembling in time with the horrible sound. Surely there weren't that many stairs. Damn spirals. 

He decided he hated who ever invented spiral staircases. A strangled chortle ripped itself from his throat. Sweat dripped down his back and pricked on his forehead. _I'm still shaking!_ The fever was back. Was it ever gone? His curls were damp now, plastering themselves to his skin. The clicking and tapping and everything but _stomping_ continued. He burned. He ached. 

( _click-click-CRACK!)_

_Will.. Will...._

"Molly?" The cracks were sickening, her cries echoing through his brain in a terrible feedback loop.

_WILL!_

Antlers snaked around his neck, on his shoulders. Around his wrists. Stairs spiraled behind his eyes. Molly was not underneath him. 

_Antlers and skulls and snakes and barren rib cages engulfing him and all the dreadful complications._

_The tapping ceased._

Adrenaline caught up to him. His knuckles burned and he became dully aware of the broad, cool hands clutching his wrists. He saw blood, blood on the face beneath him. Hannibal's nose was cracked at an angle and dripping deep scarlet onto the fancy lace ruffled up around his throat. His hands were clutched tightly on Hannibal's shoulders, nails digging into his shirt. His knuckles _burned._ Hot and angry red danced across his vision. He was so warm.. Hannibal stared up at him with an expression hitched more to adoration than horror. He had a deep feeling, somewhere shameful, that he was seeing something that he shouldn't. Everything was so warm, fevered, with the exception of the man he was currently pressing uncomfortably into the stairs. His vision blurred and swam. Hannibal said something. It sounded like everything and nothing at the same time. 

He felt himself fold. Everything cascaded into a sea of black, as if Hannibal had pulled the curtains of his consciousness shut.

-~-

Will sighed. Freddie was staring at him. Frederick was also staring, but his wide-eyed expression was somehow worse.

"It gets an explanation, I promise. I'm not evil."

Freddie laughed. "Well, some would argue.."

-~-

Will woke in a bed. In _his_ bed, to be specific.

The mosquito netting was tied to the posters, in gentle cautious ribbons he could never manage. It was almost polite, considering he had tried to bash his house guest's face in not too long ago.

He snorted. House guest. He'd let this man in for an easy death, he's practically a consensual hit man.

He sighed, wanting a change of thought. His eyes drifted to the curtains, watching the lace shiver and twist in the wind. Hannibal had opened them. The breeze filtered across him, but there was no cooling of sweat besides the occasional pinprick of cool. He eyed his clothes, the bed covers. They were washed and gently positioned across his body, in a way he only distantly recalled his late mother doing when he was very young. He shook his head to clear the memory.. Mama Graham was not something he wanted to revisit. His clothes were changed as well. From thick layers, to a thin, smooth shirt that felt almost akin to satin. It was two sizes too large and something he would never spend money on. The pants were as well, and his feet were bare. He held up a hand to inspect, and saw that his knuckles were bandaged with careful precision. 

The fevered sweat was washed from his body. His clothes were changed, his bed tended to. He was bandaged. The curtains were drawn. There was even a bowl filled with water and a washcloth nestled inside. 

The feeling of being cared for stirred something primal and needy and _shameful_ inside of his gut. It made him want to crawl and barricade himself under the bed. He tossed it aside, and tried to feel angry. He didn't bring in a stray care taker. But in his weak, limp attempts, it simply stopped short. It felt too good to be taken care of, to be... 

It was the fever talking, he decided, and let his head hit the pillow. 

-~-

Hannibal stared at himself in the cloudy mirror of Will's adjacent bathroom. 

The break had healed fairly quickly, and he was grateful. A part of him didn't want Will to remember what had happened. Not out of care, he supposed, but out of the perfectly selfish lust for that memory to be _entirely_ his. Will was fierce and angry and completely gone, pressing him into the stairs and bruising him and letting himself go. Eyes glazed over and body trembling against his. It was a moment he decided he'd lock into the darkest places of his memory palace.

He ran gentle fingers across his face. A burning he'd been ignoring since the night before rumbled in his body.

He was so hungry. He'd starved himself for Will, waiting and longing to taste the sweet tang of him again. The smell of the blood on his knuckles had almost driven him to the brink, and he considered taking Will's life right there on the staircase. A growl escaped him, bubbling up and overflowing. His hunger burned empty and hot. Tonight, he decided. He usually prided himself on his patience, but this was not one of those moments, and that was perfectly okay. He had to change Will Graham tonight.

-~-

Will had almost managed to drift back into his fitful sleep when he felt a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to sit up. He grumbled. 

"It's time," Hannibal almost whispered, his voice as dim as the candles. Will hazily thought he could control candles, with how they bayed to his voice. "up, up. This is the best time." Will found himself lazily agreeing to the gentle commands. He knew he'd resist the kindness if he wasn't so weak. Was it kindness?

"Good, good.."

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't..

Hannibal led him outside, to the courtyard. The air was warm and damp, sticking wet to his clean skin. He let out another grumble at the feeling. Hannibal scoffed, pressing a hand to his jaw and tilting his head up. His hand was cool, shockingly so, and unaffected by the humidity. It was a gentle point of contact he found himself clinging to.

He looked around the modest courtyard, staring blankly at the fireflies buzzing around the bushes. The moon shone gently across the ground, too gentle. Too soft. The hand on his jaw was ice cold. It still hadn't moved, gentle and stern.

"Will, where are you?"  
  
He stirred at the voice, blinking. "Courtyard.. My courtyard. My home. You know where I am?" A firefly bumbled into his arm and he swatted at it.

"No. Where were you, just then, when I asked you?" Hannibal stood, unwavering.

Will smirked, well, as much as he could. That, he had an answer for. 

"Heaven."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo!! i updated : D  
> we're getting to will's becoming... >:)


End file.
